The Sweetest Possible Wine ( spoken word )
Seasick,
crouched down, head smacked against wet steel.
Trying not to smell the puke that gathers in the bilge.
Waiting for the artillery
with terror filled baited breath.
Waiting for a sea-mine
and a full kit drowning death.
Staring at the deaths gate falling ramp.
Knowing when the bolts are thrown
the world will fill with lead.
Waiting with a prayer and exponentially growing dread.
The waves and the seasickness ebb.
We know that we'll soon beach.
Where the hell are the bullets?
Do they play with you in hell?
Make sure the tin hat is fitting.
Hold the gun in a sweaty palm grip.
The boat stops hard.
The bolts are thrown.
The gate drops down.
run, run, run.
We hear from the sarge.
Oh, and we ran,
and we ran
and then we slowed down.
Still no machine gun rattle.
Still no mortars coming down.
As we slowed to bewildered walking, we saw them.
The hotelier, the white coat staff, the maitre d'.
They were walking calmly and carefully towards us.
Calm because they were friendly.
Careful not to spill champagne.
Walking from a distant time.
The shining discs of silver trays.
The crystal display.
The champagne.
Captain
Said the hotelier to the captain,
I'm afraid you've been tardy if you wanted to be shot at.
Would anyone care for champagne
His staff then walked the company,
served us the sweetest wine.
And we sat on the sand in the south of France
and we toasted each other in a scene both surreal and sublime.
Carnage suspended in a time completely out of time.
It did not matter that it was brief respite.
That we had to form the line.
That was August '44, we fought hard through '45.
We all saw people blown apart.
Saw friends get hit and realise and die.
I saw Taffy Evans hit.
He'd been on the beach that day.
He'd insisted on toasting Wales.
Some bastard sniper got him in the thigh.
Blew out the femoral so he knew he was going to die.
As he lay on the ground, spurting his life,
he looked at me, licked his lips, and he smiled.
He was back on the beach that day,
drinking a perfect glass of wine.
His last gift was to give me courage.
See now I don't fear death.
Be it bullet or bomb or indignant old age,
when it comes my time,
I will leave this world with no regrets
tasting the sweetest of possible wines.
Β
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Comments
awesome verse. that accent of yours is stellar LoL
Thanks poetess, North London is closest to my normal speaking voice but I do hope this voice belongs to the character. The second day of operation Anvil in August '44. None of the troops in the landing craft would of known that the Germans had pulled back 50 miles inland when they set off towards the beach at St. Tropez. August the 16th 1944.
Thank you poetess,
Nigel.
Sir NIGEL!!.....I remember this piece..... it is an absolutely mesmerizing poem.... the scene unfolds so BEAUTIFULLY and SURREALISTICALLY at the same time...... that scene of the Hotelier and staff in white...... serving champagne to soldiers with the dust of war over them will forever be etched into memory and minds eye..... An absolutely STUNNING poem come to life with your spoken dramatics!!......PINNED:......you have so many amazing narrative writes that they really need to be made available to the public!!......I am your ever-friend and admirer.......tony β€β΄?
Bravo!!?????
Thank you Tony,
When I was first reading about Operation Anvil which was the second allied invasion in the south of France the thing that struck me about the completely unopposed landing at St. Tropez was that the troops in the landing craft would have no idea that they were sailing into a reprieve.
In selecting troops for Anvil both the US and the British chose soldiers who had been in the first waves at Normandy. They would of been expecting the same again but they got champagne.
NigelΒ